


masterpieces of colors and chaos

by cosmicwoosan



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Insomnia, M/M, Mild Smut, Musical Instruments, Painting, Park Seonghwa is Whipped, Pining, San is a bit of an ass, Synesthesia, Very Very Light Angst, jongho is a professor at 26
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24400924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicwoosan/pseuds/cosmicwoosan
Summary: Hongjoong hears his world in hues, a tumultuous mesh of colors that never seem to make sense, as melodies and music notes curl around his head in a rainbow maelstrom whenever his fingers dance along the keys.Seonghwa is an aspiring artist with an endless arsenal of paints and brushes, though his lack of inspiration has proven to be one of the main obstacles standing in his way of true artistry.Both proud and terrified of his ability, Hongjoong spends his time locked away in a practice room until Seonghwa captures his music, his colors, and his heart by painting his chaotic clash of senses to life.
Relationships: Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 23
Kudos: 268





	masterpieces of colors and chaos

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [искусство цветов и хаоса](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26949646) by [shiroeky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiroeky/pseuds/shiroeky)



> disclaimer: i know absolutely NOTHING about painting/visual arts. i myself am a musician but tbh i probably don't describe musical terms and stuff all that well so just enjoy the fluff and smut instead lol
> 
> also yes, jongho is aged up and a professor at 26. no questions asked.
> 
> the songs that hongjoong plays throughout the story are ateez songs, with 'treasure' as the main focus. for reference, listen to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Naee8Njk5wc) piano cover!
> 
> (also i accidentally posted this for like three minutes by accident on wednesday at like midnight so sorry for the confusion if you happened to see it lol)

Seonghwa is a nice person, which is why he agreed to help Yunho move instruments after the performance, though Yunho didn’t tell him how _many_ instruments he would be moving. If he knew he’d have to carry nearly all the brass instruments and drum pieces and amps and microphones back to the music building, he probably wouldn’t have agreed in the first place, but now here he is, lugging all sorts of cases containing precious instruments that a college student really cannot afford to drop. Granted, the cases are built to be sturdy, but Seonghwa has had his fair share of bad luck. He’s learned to expect the worst.

Fortunately, he manages to get through the bulk of it with Yunho and some other students’ help, and while he feels like a nice person for helping, his back may or may not kill him in the morning. Shouldn’t they have moving carts or something? Seonghwa feels like they should.

Yunho carries around his own instrument like it’s his child, an electric bass, and whenever Seonghwa gets _near_ it, Yunho is there to swat his hand away or stare daggers into his eyes until he backs off from his cherished bass guitar. Even as they’re standing around on the basement floor of the music building making idle conversation, Yunho holds his guitar case close to him, practically hugging it as he talks to his friends. Seonghwa stands to the side awkwardly, barely listening in on the music majors’ conversation, as he understands absolutely none of what they’re talking about.

As a fine arts major, Seonghwa appreciates art in all of its forms, and finally having time in his schedule to see one of Yunho’s performances was a miracle. Though Yunho’s appearance remained mostly in the jazz portion of the performance, Seonghwa enjoyed the entire showcase and watched in awe as deft fingers played all varieties of instruments, creating beautiful sounds and melodies that soothed his ears. Yunho always begged Seonghwa to come to one of his performances, but as an art major, Seonghwa always had projects to finish, and being a bit of a procrastinator never helped. This time around, however, Seonghwa managed to finish all of his latest projects _and_ homework on time and was finally free to attend Yunho’s first performance of the new semester.

Though now that the performance is over, Seonghwa is left with the rest of the night, no projects, no other assignments, and a desperate need for resurgence in his social life, which is why he’s standing around Yunho and waiting for his friends to be done talking about the performance so they can hang out for the rest of the night. He would try to be part of the conversation, but the extensive amount of musical vocabulary they’re using has him quite intimidated, so he just stands off to the side.

He’s never been to the basement level of the music building. It’s mostly used for storage, where students put their instruments away in lockers and spare rooms, but it’s also home to practice rooms where students hone their skills or get some studying done or probably participate in some other activities that shouldn’t be done in a practice room. According to Yunho, each practice room houses a piano for any student to use, music major or not.

“Hey, Yunho-yah,” Seonghwa whispers, tapping his friend’s shoulder, “where’s the restroom?”

“Oh, it’s down that hallway, take a right, and it’ll be on your left,” Yunho says, pointing down a long hallway of lockers and practice rooms. He smiles and turns back to the conversation with his fellow bandmates.

Seonghwa rolls his eyes internally and makes his way down the hallway. He glances in every practice room as he does; every single light is turned on but they’re all vacant. He wonders if they’re open twenty-four-seven.

He rounds the corner only to be greeted by _another_ hallway of practice rooms, though this one is significantly shorter. Surely enough, at the end of the mini hallway to his left is the restroom.

He’s pissing when he hears it.

An unfamiliar melody, sounding through the bathroom walls and echoing off of them. Seonghwa figures it must be somebody practicing, but who would be practicing right after a performance? It’s not a familiar tune, not one that was played during the performance or any classical piece he’s ever heard, but he quite likes the sound of it. He washes up, the music still continuing to penetrate the walls. When he steps out of the bathroom, the music drowns, and Seonghwa is left a bit puzzled. The wall connecting the bathroom and the practice room next to it must be very thin.

Even so, when he peeks into the adjacent practice room, there’s a person inside sitting at the piano, his fingers moving along the keys with precision and finesse; his entire body is swaying to the piece, eyes closed in concentration. Seonghwa is thoroughly impressed. He figures it’s a student, since he doesn’t look much older than him.

The song itself sounds ballad-like, especially with how the student is playing it. With changing dynamics and lulls in the tempo, the emotion the piece conveys is exceptional, unlike the pianist during the performance. While the pianist did an amazing job, they sat stiff, read from their sheet music, and followed the leader.

This silver-haired stranger is playing some sort of freeform melody, a liberated wave of sound, completely free from any sheet music or rules, as Seonghwa watches attentively, astounded and intrigued. Though the song is at a much lower volume from the hallway than the bathroom, Seonghwa can _see_ the artist through the vertical rectangular window, the way that his brows crease, how his body moves with the wave, and…

At the thrilling conclusion, the artist drops his fingers from the keys, tilts his head back, opens his eyes, and lets out a hefty sigh. He grips the edge of the bench, fingers clenched as his head falls forward again, landing on the sheet music rack. He breathes deeply with his eyes closed for several seconds, and Seonghwa can’t help but frown at the sight. There is obviously strain in his facial expression, his brows still creased but not in concentration this time.

When the stranger finally sits up, Seonghwa decides it’s probably best to take his leave. After all, he’s sure a stranger wouldn’t appreciate finding out that somebody had seen him in such a vulnerable state. Yunho is right where Seonghwa left him, standing among his circle of musician friends, laughing and conversing.

Seonghwa lets out a big inward sigh of relief when Yunho wraps up the conversation and packs his guitar away. Venturing out into the late summer air, they head towards the center of campus for some late-night junk food because that’s what they deserve.

As he forks away at their chicken, Seonghwa replays the stranger’s melody in his head on a loop, a continuous rewind of a music box, and he finds himself humming it. Yunho glances at him curiously unbeknownst to him. “That’s a really pretty melody,” he comments, chewing. “What song is it?”

Seonghwa shrugs. “Don’t know. I heard somebody playing it when I went to the bathroom.”

“There was someone practicing?”

“Yeah. Didn’t recognize him though. He wasn’t part of the performance from what I remember.”

Yunho’s eyebrows scrunch with confusion. “What did he look like?”

“Um… I couldn’t see much of his face, but his hair was silver,” Seonghwa says.

“Silver, huh? I mean, I don’t know of any silver-haired guys in the music program. Maybe he’s not a music major. Practice rooms are open to anyone, after all.”

Seonghwa nods. “I feel like there aren’t that many silver-haired people on campus though.”

Yunho shrugs. “It’s a big campus, but I know for sure that there aren’t any guys with silver hair in the music department. Even so, it’s a nice melody. I wonder if he composed it himself.”

Seonghwa hadn’t even considered the possibility. If the stranger _did_ compose the piece himself, then Seonghwa would consider him some sort of musical prodigy, or at least an extremely talented composer. It’s already stuck in his head, an earworm on repeat, and even as the night goes on, Seonghwa finds his heart beating to the rhythm of this stranger’s music. It’s a strange experience, finding that his breathing is synchronized with the swaying of the silver-haired musician, that tranquil melody, and he swears he can feel his blood flowing just like those notes.

Seonghwa never thought it was possible to be so enraptured by a piece of music.

-

Being a fine arts major has its ups and downs. One of the ups is that his classes mostly consist of things that _actually_ have to do with his major, since he’s already gotten all of the prerequisites out of the way. He can do things that he enjoys. The downside of that is he constantly has projects to do and only so much motivation and inspiration.

Seonghwa can do drawing. He can do photography. Sculpting, however, is not his specialty. He can do it, sure, but his sculptures don’t turn out as well as his canvases do. He will admit that there are definitely some classmates whose hands aren’t as skilled as his, but he could do better.

His expertise resides in the world of painting, where the color spectrum is his mentor, where he is free to splash whatever colors he wants across a blank canvas and create a work of art that is pleasing to the eyes and soul. He could paint for hours upon hours because his world exists in colors, both the real and the fantastical.

It’s just… sometimes, he runs out of things to paint.

He has an arsenal of colors up his sleeve, different kinds of paints and brushes that could create any image that he desires, but just because he _can_ paint doesn’t mean he always knows _what_ to paint. Inspiration comes to him in bouts, mostly random bursts of inspiration when he’s out going for a walk or staring at a blank wall for twenty minutes, but when it comes to his projects, his inspiration is often forced.

Of course, there are guidelines he has to follow. He’s able to execute them easily and proficiently, but even though the professors love what they see, Seonghwa doesn’t. Sure, they may _look_ nice, pleasant to the eye, but all he can see is blotted inspiration that came from absolutely nowhere. Nothing but an abyss and a whole mess of colors that weren’t even his idea to begin with.

Just following the guidelines.

He does enjoy it though. He supposes it could be much worse.

He gazes out at the campus’s central pond, a sketchpad in his lap as he taps his pencil against it. He’s drawn the pond and its fountain before, the swing attached to the tree with the drooping branches, the multitude of sunsets that have come and gone. He’s drawn the sports teams that come by to do their practices, the picnickers, the music students who like to have jam sessions now and again. He’s drawn _everything_ there is to see here. With that all being said, he doesn’t really know why he’s here.

Perhaps it’s the only place where he can get _some_ sort of inspiration, as it’s probably the most aesthetically pleasing place on campus. But even so, as the sun begins to paint the sky with colors that Seonghwa has seen time and time again, he sighs, closes his sketchbook, and stands up. His creative juices just aren’t flowing. He understands that this is normal for any artist, visual or musical or even in writing, having frustrating blocks in inspiration where the muse just isn’t there. Sometimes it just needs to happen. Most of the time, it’s unpredictable and at the most random times.

The thing is, Seonghwa kind of needs it to happen soon because he has a sketch due for his drawing class next week, and while he can easily crank one out in a few hours, the inspiration is just not there, and he doesn’t want to _completely_ half-ass his projects.

He wanders the university’s pathways, glancing around the scenery to try and find _something_ to spark his creativity when he remembers the pianist from a few days ago. The way he found himself so moved by the artist’s piece, how the melody stuck with him even after he’d unintentionally heard the performance. He hasn’t seen the nameless pianist since, and he wonders how they’re doing.

That’s when Seonghwa gets the idea. With the creative juices finally flowing, he makes a beeline for the music building. The students inside stare at him as he walks by, probably surprised to see such an unfamiliar face roaming the halls, but he ignores it as he takes the elevator down to the basement floor, where all the practice rooms are. Being early evening, some of the rooms are occupied by students practicing all sorts of instruments, and Seonghwa can hear the discordant sounds of trombones and pianos and clarinets and everything in between clashing in his eardrums. It isn’t a particularly pleasant experience.

He follows the hallway down to where the restroom is, where that one practice room is. Maybe, by a stroke of fate, the same pianist will be inside, playing that same song with the addicting melody, looking as immersed in his music as ever, and _that_ is what Seonghwa plans on using for his inspiration. He doesn’t know exactly _how_ he will, if he will draw the actual pianist playing his song or perhaps create a piece that the melody draws for him. He’s winging it at this point, and for all he knows, the mystery pianist might not even be there.

Odds have never entirely been in Seonghwa’s favor. The room is vacant, but the light is on just like all the others. Seonghwa lets out an audible sigh of disappointment, but steps inside the practice room nonetheless and takes a seat at the piano’s bench. Straightening his spine, he rests his sketchpad on the music sheet stand, sliding his pencil in the crook of his right ear, and positions a single hand on the keys. He plays a note, a random white one, and finds himself wondering just how in the world people do this with their eyes closed. He plays another key, and another, and while Seonghwa isn’t tone deaf in the slightest, he’s damn sure he will never be able to create a song himself. He’s talented with his hands, just in another way.

He chuckles to himself, playing what he’s pretty sure is called a ‘chord,’ though it doesn’t sound pleasant at all. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, but he’s here already. The pianist he’d intended on seeing isn’t, but he’s not going to let the trip go to waste. He gets up from the bench, plucking his sketchpad from the stand and crouches down by the entrance to the room. Snatching the pencil from behind his ear, he opens up a new page and begins his work.

There are a lot of things Seonghwa has drawn in his lifetime. He’s surprised one of them hasn’t been a piano or any sort of musical instrument. Considering one of his best friends is a music major, he can see it being a form of an artistic crime, not taking advantage of all available muses present in his life. He’s sure Yunho would be happy to let him draw him or his instrument, but the two have such conflicting schedules that there’s no way Seonghwa could find the time to arrange a drawing session with his friend. He definitely feels a bit guilty in that regard.

Now, in the confines of a practice room, Seonghwa sketches his first ever musical instrument, a sleek black upright piano. He just wishes someone were sitting at it, that someone being the nameless silver-haired mystery pianist, but just the piano will have to do for now. Seonghwa is sure he can add more details to it later, maybe a more interesting background than the bleak, prison-colored walls, among other things that he will have to tweak.

He’s only just finished the outline of the piano when he hears the door behind him open. Good thing it’s a pull door on the opposite end; otherwise a door would have knocked right into his spine, which is definitely something he would not enjoy being someone who hunches over most of the time. There’s a surprised yelp as Seonghwa turns around, landing on his ass at the sudden movement, and lo and behold, the silver-haired stranger is gawking at him with wide eyes and a reddening face. “Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry!” he cries, already scrambling to get away.

“Wait!” Seonghwa calls out for him, dropping both his sketchpad and pencil in a frenzy, but the musician is quick on his feet, ignoring Seonghwa’s plea and bolting down the hall. The artist watches from the end of the hall as the pianist gets further away, the very reason Seonghwa came here in the first place.

Just his luck. And to top it all off, his pencil had gone astray during the exchange, a jagged line now cutting through the outline of his piano sketch, _and_ the tip had broken off.

Just his fucking luck.

-

“So, let me get this straight,” Wooyoung says, “there’s this mystery musician guy that you’re pining after—”

“I’m not _pining_ ,” Seonghwa argues, frowning. “I don’t even _know_ the guy. All I know is that he has silver hair and that his song has been stuck in my head for several days. And now, he’s probably terrified of going back into that room because someone decided to invade it, that someone being me.” He lets out a frustrated sigh as Wooyoung stares at him with judging eyes.

“Dude,” he says, “just go back there, wait for him to show up, and calmly explain what you were doing in there. I mean, there’s a chance he could take up another practice room, but you could still _try_ to talk to him, y’know? Let him know that you really like his music. Musicians love having their egos boosted.”

Seonghwa scoffs, remembering how Yunho had practically glowed at him complimenting his bass solo one day. From what he knows, the university certainly has no shortage of extroverted musicians who display their talent with pride and confidence whenever they can. It’s not that Seonghwa hates it, but it can certainly get annoying when a section of the choir decides to start harmonizing in the middle of the dining hall while he’s trying to work.

“It’s like, a college Cinderella story. You trying to find Cinderella, who in this case is that silver-haired musician you’re in love with—”

“Wooyoung-ah—”

“—and your quest will never cease so long as the princess isn’t in your loving embrace. How romantic.” Wooyoung sighs dreamily, arms crossed over his chest in a mummy-like X.

Rolling his eyes, Seonghwa cleans up their food because of course Wooyoung isn’t going to, and retreats to his studio for the night. Hopefully, he won’t be too distracted while Wooyoung bellows out his monologues in the room across the hall.

It’s a blessing and a curse, being roommates with a theater major. It can get irritating at times, but at least there’s entertainment other times.

Seonghwa flips open his sketchbook to the drawing of the piano. Mourning his broken pencil and the line through the piano’s body, he flips to a new page where he begins sketching a new one.

He soon realizes that it’s not the same. Not without the piano in front of him. Of course, he could look up an image on his phone, but what good would that be? He’s an _artist_ ; he should be taking advantage of any muse he can get in real time, in real life, not pixels through a screen.

With only a few seconds of consideration, he stands up abruptly, gathers his jacket and bag, and heads for the music building with his sketchbook tucked under his arm.

-

Apparently, the music building _is_ open twenty-four-seven. It’s ten when Seonghwa arrives, and he texts Yunho for clarification just in case, since he can’t really afford to get in trouble for intrusion or something like that. Being so late at night, there are only two students in the lobby, both busy tapping away at their laptops.

He takes the elevator down to the basement floor, where a few lights are turned off, but the hallway is still sufficiently lit. It’s eerily silent in comparison to the last visit; there are no discordant battles between instruments, no voices, nothing. It’s not entirely surprising, being a Tuesday night.

Taking careful steps down the hall toward the designated practice room, Seonghwa holds his sketchbook closer, skin tingling with anticipation. What if he runs into the mystery pianist this time?

He just wants to paint a piano. He could choose any practice room he wants. But his feet are carrying him towards that _one_ room, the one home to silver hair and gorgeous melodies, _maybe_ in hopes that he’ll see him.

When he glances in the window, he doesn’t know if the gods have cursed him or granted his wish. There, on the piano bench with a textbook perched upon the sheet stand, is the silver-haired stranger. His fingers are not on the keys, however. They’re occupied by a notebook and pencil, presumably taking notes.

With a deep inhale, Seonghwa braces himself as he knocks on the door, his face visible through the window. The stranger jumps slightly, head twisting to the left before the right, where Seonghwa is peering in through the window. He frowns, pointing to himself, and Seonghwa nods.

Visibly timid, the stranger stands up and traipses to the door, opening it hesitantly. “Um… can I help you?” he asks. His voice matches his face, Seonghwa notes. It’s soft, just like his features, and quiet, timid, like his eyes.

“Oh, um, I’m… my name is Park Seonghwa. I ran into you that one time, I don’t know if you remember.” Seonghwa laughs awkwardly.

“You were the one sitting in front of the door, right? And then I got so startled that I ran away.”

Seonghwa has to suppress a chuckle. “Y-Yeah. I just, ah, wanted to apologize for intruding.”

The stranger shrugs. “It’s a public building. I don’t own the space.”

_Yeah, but I came into this room specifically because I heard you playing the night of Yunho’s performance and I really liked your song._

“W-Well, um, then I apologize for startling you.”

“It’s okay.” The stranger smiles shyly. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be in this room. It’s at the very end of the hall, not to mention it’s next to the bathroom, so most of the students don’t choose this room. I like it though, it’s nice and private.”

“I, uh…”

_Say it, Seonghwa. Tell him you liked his music._

“So you play?”

_Real smooth._

“Yeah,” the stranger says. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Kim Hongjoong.”

“Oh, it’s nice to meet you, Hongjoong.”

“Likewise, Seonghwa.” He glances back at the piano. “I was just, ah, doing some homework.”

“Here? At ten at night?” Seonghwa questions, eyebrow raised.

“I live in a dorm, but I’m not a huge fan of my roommate. I basically only go back to sleep, but even then, I don’t really sleep.” Hongjoong chuckles humorlessly. “So I’m usually cooped up in this practice room most nights, doing homework, playing piano.”

“Oh, nice! I, ah, came here because I was going to draw the piano. That’s what I was working on that day I ran into you last.”

“I briefly saw that,” Hongjoong says, glancing at the sketchbook in Seonghwa’s hand. “It looked really good, from the few seconds I saw it before taking off. Are you a fine arts major?”

Seonghwa nods. “Are you a music major?”

Hongjoong’s face falls with a sigh. “No. I _want_ to major in music performance, but… I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s… a bit much. I’d rather not talk about it.”

Seonghwa is instantly filled with guilt, wincing internally, wishing he could retract the question. “Ah, well… again, I’m sorry for intruding. I’ll… leave you to your work.”

“Really, don’t worry about it, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong says, smiling reassuringly. “It was nice talking to you. Maybe we’ll run into each other again? And I won’t run away from you next time.” He chuckles, smile widening as his teeth poke past his lips.

“Y-Yeah! Maybe.”

Seonghwa is quick to leave because he’s so fucking nervous that he feels like he’s going to throw up his dinner, but at least he knows the stranger’s name now. Kim Hongjoong, whose piano skills rival those of the actual music major pianists but isn’t a music major himself. In many ways, Hongjoong is still a mysterious stranger, and Seonghwa has a feeling that there really is more to him than meets the eye.

Putting his apprehensions aside, he takes several deep breaths and tells himself that he’ll visit the practice room more often. That he’ll get to know Hongjoong. That he’ll find out the reason why Hongjoong doesn’t sleep or why he isn’t a music major even though he is certainly cut out to be one.

All of the above, and Seonghwa also wants to hear him play that song that captivated him in the first place.

When he gets back home, he realizes that his sketchbook lacks a piano.

-

“Hongjoong, huh? Never heard of him,” Yunho says, fiddling with the tuning keys of his bass.

With this weekend being one of the few weekends Seonghwa actually doesn’t have work, he decided to join Yunho to witness his band’s practice. Totally unaffiliated with the university, the band ‘Wicked and Lovely’ consists of a Jeong Yunho, a Choi San, a Kang Yeosang, and a Song Mingi, and so far, Seonghwa hasn’t heard them play a single song, and it’s been about an hour. It’s mostly just been them ‘tuning their instruments,’ when in reality, it’s been them bickering over the jazz concert, discussing their favorite musical scales, and complaining about the theater kids and how they should stop sticking their noses in the music department (minus Wooyoung because they love him for whatever reason).

They’re gathered in a vacant performance hall, one that is open to students by reservation, and so far, they’re not making very good use of their limited time.

Figuring that they wouldn’t mind a diversion in their conversation, Seonghwa brings up Hongjoong’s name. They all look at each other and shrug.

“If I see his face, maybe I’ll recognize him,” San says.

“He has silver hair. That’s probably his most distinct feature,” Seonghwa tells him.

“Oh, that guy?” Mingi suddenly pipes up. “Yeah, I’ve seen him around. He always sneaks off to the practice room next to the bathroom. Nobody likes that room since it’s right next to the place where people piss. Not to mention the wall between the rooms are pretty thin, so the sound of flushing can get pretty annoying when trying to practice. But it’s almost guaranteed not to be in use, so that’s probably why he goes there.”

“So Hongjoong is the guy who was playing that song you liked?” Yunho questions, sliding his fingers down from the tuning keys and resting them on the strings. He plucks the top string, and a deep note rings through the performance hall.

“Yeah. I actually ran into him the other night, and I, uh, meant to compliment him on his song, but I kinda… didn’t.”

Yeosang scoffs. “You should’ve. Musicians love compliments. I know I do.” He twirls a drumstick in his hand, a trick that Seonghwa is utterly confused by.

“Aww, hyung, were you nervous? Sounds like you were starstruck,” Yunho coos, swiping at Seonghwa’s arm before the older swats his hand away.

“Must’ve been a really good song,” San mumbles. “Then again, you’re just a fine arts major. I’m sure most things would be pleasing to your ears, even if it’s simple.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Seonghwa protests with a frown. He sighs and bites his lip. “Look, it was the night of the jazz concert. I saw the way he played. He was so immersed in it, like he was putting his all into that one song he was playing, and there wasn’t even any sheet music! He was playing it completely from memory, and I’m pretty sure it was self-composed. So no, I don’t think what he was playing was _that_ simple, and not to hate on the pianist from the jazz concert, but Hongjoong played much better in my opinion.”

“You sound like you’re pretty whipped for this guy,” Yeosang says. “The jazz pianist is really good. I don’t know what you’re on about, but then again, I’ve never heard this Hongjoong guy play, so I guess I can’t jump to immediate conclusions.”

Seonghwa glowers at him and his spinning drumstick. “I am not _whipped._ I’m just saying, he was really good at playing and…” He stalls himself, realizing that his arguments are pretty pointless considering 1. none of them know who Hongjoong is, and 2. him giving endless praise towards Hongjoong’s playing isn’t helping his case, that case being that he isn’t whipped.

He is _not_ whipped. He doesn’t even know the guy all that well for crying out loud.

“Guys, guys,” Mingi sighs, standing up with his arms out in a mediating manner. “Let’s not argue here. While it’s obvious that Seonghwa here is whipped for Hongjoong, let’s not dismiss his major, okay? He _is_ an artist, even if it’s not in the music realm. He can appreciate art in all forms and make his own judgements. Because we have not heard the song in question, we cannot place judgement, nor should we, ahem, San, say that just because Seonghwa isn’t musically inclined, that his judgement isn’t valid.”

The four of them stare at Mingi incredulously, though San’s frown is obviously deeper.

“I don’t think we should be making judgements, _period_ ,” Yunho says. “At the end of the day, we don’t know this Hongjoong guy or his song, and Seonghwa-hyung is still whipped for him. So how about we actually practice instead of arguing?”

“Not arguing,” San mutters, pouting.

“Says the one who just had to make an unnecessarily rude jab at Seonghwa’s major. Come on, get your guitar and let’s actually be productive now.” Yunho stands up, slipping the strap over his shoulder as his band members position themselves on the stage. San is still frowning even as he steps up to the mic.

Finally, Seonghwa gets to hear them play. He doesn’t know if it’s the hall’s acoustics, but their music sounds about as chaotic as the members themselves.

-

The next time Seonghwa sees Hongjoong is actually in the bathroom of the music building.

Seonghwa had been _totally not planning_ on going to that _one_ practice room. He just wanted to redraw his piano that he totally forgot about because meeting Hongjoong that night distracted him. He was _totally planning_ on going into a practice room, but _definitely not the one he met Hongjoong in._ But now, he’s right next to Hongjoong at the urinals, separated by a short wall, and he swears he can feel all the blood rushing to his ears and face, turning him redder than the brightest red in his paint collection.

“Fancy running into you here,” Hongjoong quips, still glancing down at his business.

Seonghwa’s eyes flick over the stall, not knowing where to land. “Oh, uh, yeah.”

“Did you come back to draw?”

“Uh… yeah.”

So it seems as if his vocabulary has been reduced to about three words.

Hongjoong chuckles. “Well, feel free to draw the one in my room. W-Well, not _my_ room, but you know what I mean. I’ll just be doing some homework so hopefully you won’t be bothered.”

_Or distracted._

“Y-Yeah, if you don’t mind,” Seonghwa stammers like an idiot.

That’s how they end up, with Hongjoong at the piano bench much like the last time Seonghwa had seen him, and Seonghwa huddled up right in front of the door, his sketchbook open and pencil moving in quick strokes as he sketches a rough outline of the piano. It’s silent apart from the sound of pencil on paper from both Seonghwa and Hongjoong, and it’s driving Seonghwa a bit mad. There’s a literal instrument in the room.

“Um… hey, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa says.

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering… if you could play something.”

Hongjoong’s pencil comes to a halt, his shoulders visibly tensing but his face remaining neutral. “You totally don’t have to!” Seonghwa adds. “Just, ah, I r-really like music. Live music. One of my best friends is a music major, and I was at the jazz concert a while ago, and I…”

Fuck.

_It’s now or never, Seonghwa._

“I… saw and heard you playing this one song after the show. I didn’t recognize it, but I really, really liked it. I, ah, would come down to this practice room just in case you came by so I could compliment you on your playing, but, ah…”

Seonghwa hasn’t been this out of breath since he nearly dropped Yunho’s bass. _That_ was scary, knocked the wind right out of him. He swears he will never forget the look Yunho gave him that day.

Just when he feels like the world is about to drench him in scalding hot paint, he sees one corner of Hongjoong’s mouth lift. Then, he chuckles. “You heard that?” he asks, amused yet modest.

“Y-Yeah,” Seonghwa finally admits. “It was really, really good. Couldn’t get the melody out of my head for several days.”

Hongjoong smiles, mouth closed, but it’s such a kind, _genuine_ smile. One that doesn’t belong to the glitzy musicians and theater kids Seonghwa has become too familiar with. Hongjoong smiles as if he’s never heard someone say something about his song like this. “Thank you,” he says after several seconds. “I actually composed that piece myself. I… I can play it, if you want. I might mess up though. I get nervous in front of other people.”

“That’s okay!” Seonghwa assures, perhaps a bit hastily. “Ah, I mean, that would be great. I’d love to hear it again.”

Hongjoong nods, still smiling even as he removes all of his study materials from the piano. He’s breathing deeply, Seonghwa notices, as he lines his fingers up on the keys, his posture straightening. Seonghwa glances between his drawing and Hongjoong, and when Hongjoong plays the first chord, Seonghwa lowers his pencil’s tip to wear the bench would be.

The song starts in a mellower way than from when Seonghwa heard it last. His lack of musical knowledge is really starting to shine through, since he can’t even begin to think of words to describe the song. All he can really say is that it starts off with what sounds like high notes. It’s slow, graceful, unlike the rough, uneven strokes of his outline. But the further Hongjoong progresses, the more energetic the piece becomes. Seonghwa remembers hearing this part, which must be the chorus.

He strikes three notes, all of which he plays in octaves (at least, Seonghwa’s pretty sure that’s the term), before the song explodes into a chorus, where his left hand moves nimbly to accompany the melody of the right. It’s so powerful, so engaging, that Seonghwa’s hand stop entirely, and he watches Hongjoong’s instead. Hongjoong’s eyes are closed, his head swaying just like it had before, as his fingers bounce off the keys effortlessly in that same addicting melody that Seonghwa loved at first sound.

After the first chorus, the song eases again into the second verse, but it’s not any less impactful. The second verse differs greatly from the first, using chords and notes that don’t sound like they belong but they _do_ , and Seonghwa and his musically uninclined brain doesn’t even know how that works. Even the second pre-chorus sounds different from the first pre-chorus. It’s the same melody, just… different.

The second chorus goes off without a hitch and fades into a bridge, one that sounds vastly different from the rest of the song, again using chords that sound like they don’t belong but they do. He slows it down yet doesn’t rest his fingers for a second. The bridge itself reaches a climax, where his fingers cross over each other at lightning speed as they ascend and descend the keys in a breathtaking arpeggio that leads back to the chorus. This final chorus is the part that Seonghwa heard, the section that got stuck in his head for so long, and now, he’s hearing it front and center.

Hongjoong ends the song similarly to how he started it. Soft and slow, giving the powerfully dynamic song a serene resolution.

At some point during the performance, Seonghwa dropped the pencil into his lap.

Hongjoong lowers his hands from the keys, his shoulders slumping as he lets out a quick puff of air. “So… yeah. That’s it.”

 _That’s it? That’s_ it _?_ Seonghwa’s jaw is hanging from his face, and Hongjoong has the audacity to say ‘that’s it?’

“I… wow.” Again, Seonghwa’s ability to form words has abandoned him.

Hongjoong laughs again, that beautiful sound, and nods. “I call it ‘Treasure.’ Had a nice ring to it. The notes in the beginning remind me of sparkling gold coins, twinkling in the rhythm of the song. It’s a journey, like the ups and downs of going on an adventure. I’m… actually pretty proud of it, unlike some of the other things I’ve composed.”

“Oh, come on. I bet everything else you’ve composed is amazing too.”

“I don’t know. Maybe to some people. But ‘Treasure’ is definitely my most polished piece. So… you liked it?”

Seonghwa chuckles this time. “I thought I made that clear in the beginning.”

“Right.” A rosy blush appears on Hongjoong’s ears.

“You’re… amazing. Really,” Seonghwa says earnestly, glancing down at the sketch in his lap. During Hongjoong’s performance, he’d drawn the bench… and the outline of Hongjoong’s legs. Feeling his own blush coming on, he flips the sketchbook closed. “I don’t really know much about music, but I can tell how much effort and passion you put into your playing.”

That same smile from before spreads across Hongjoong’s face as he turns towards Seonghwa, a hint of embarrassment in his eyes. “Thank you. Really, it…” He lets out a deep breath, eyes slipping shut again as his head drops. “It means a lot.”

Several seconds of silence linger in the air before Seonghwa finally stands up and walks over beside the bench. He stares down at the piano keys and plays a note far off to the right, making Hongjoong chuckle. “That’s a G.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Seonghwa replies cheekily.

“A note.” Hongjoong plays a note further down the piano. “This is G too.”

Seonghwa may not know much about music, but he’s not tone deaf. He nods, playing his G again. Hongjoong plays his. The two go back and forth in a battle of G’s until they’re laughing at each other and Hongjoong strikes a sudden chord. “That is a G major chord.”

“I also have no idea what that means.”

Hongjoong rolls his eyes playfully. “Here, have a seat.” He scooches over and pats the space on the bench next to him, which Seonghwa sits down on. “So you said your best friend is in the music department, huh?” he asks, his fingers starting another melody.

He plays so casually as Seonghwa stares mindlessly at his fingers, brain barely catching up and realizing that Hongjoong asked him a question. “Oh, y-yeah. He plays bass in jazz band.”

“Oh, Yunho?”

“You know him?”

“I do. Well, not personally, but I know him by name.” Hongjoong keeps his eyes on his fingers and the keys as he speaks, like cranking out elegant melodies is second nature to him (which it probably is). “I know the names of almost everybody in the music program since I go to to all of their concerts and read the names of the performers.. They just don’t know me because, well, I’m not in the music program and I’m kind of a nobody.”

Seonghwa is having a hard time focusing on one thing. He tries to hone in on Hongjoong’s words and his playing at the same time, but he’s mesmerized by the way Hongjoong owns the keys, the way he rules over them with grace and powerful simplicity. It’s so _casual._ Seonghwa can’t believe it.

“You’re not… you’re not a nobody,” Seonghwa eventually responds once his ears process Hongjoong’s words.

“By definition of the theater kids, I think I am.” Hongjoong chuckles. “Self-deprecation aside, really, nobody really knows who I am. I don’t put myself out there. It’s… it’s why I don’t think I’m cut out for the music program, or for a music performance major. I just… get too nervous.”

“Stage fright?”

Hongjoong nods. “I don’t have a major at the moment. I guess there’s something in me that’s clinging onto the hope that I’ll break free one day, that I’ll get over my fear of performing in front of people…” He sighs, eyes squeezing shut again. “I really want to. I really, really want to major in something that has to do with music. I’m just afraid.”

“Why do you think that is?” Seonghwa asks.

Hongjoong raises his head, eyes glancing over at Seonghwa’s sketchbook, which has been left lonely on the floor next to the door. “I… you’re a fine arts major, right? What do you do exactly? What’s your expertise?”

“Ah, I do a bit of everything for my classes, but I’m a painter. That’s where my expertise lies,” Seonghwa answers.

“Then maybe… maybe you’ll understand. Artist to artist.”

Seonghwa doesn’t have the slightest clue as to what Hongjoong is referring to, but he nods anyway. “I’m scared because I’m not… I’m not normal. I’m not like the musicians in the music program, at least, I don’t _think_ I am. I get nervous because I feel like I’m crazy sometimes. Music is _everything_ to me, so much so that… it’s why I can’t sleep at night. My brain’s like a piano that just won’t stop playing. A song that never ends.” Hongjoong’s stopped playing, though his hands rest on the last keys he played.

“So… insomnia?” Seonghwa questions, feeling a bit dumb.

“Yeah, something like that,” Hongjoong says humorlessly. “No matter where I go or what I’m doing, there’s always music in my brain. When I close my eyes… I can still hear the colors.”

Seonghwa tilts his head, perplexed by the peculiar statement. He watches Hongjoong’s brows furrow along with his closed eyes. “Hear colors?”

Hongjoong nods, picking his fingers back up and playing a chord. “Gold.”

Seonghwa glances down at the piano. Hongjoong plays another chord. “Blue. A sky blue. Like the brightest sky blue there is.”

“So… each chord has a color associated with it?” Seonghwa asks.

“It’s a lot more complicated than that,” Hongjoong says, finally opening his eyes. A tiny smile filled with something Seonghwa can only call _wonder_ appears on his face. “It’s more than just association. When I play these chords, the colors appear. They appear so vividly in my brain. And when I play or compose or even hear a song, my brain paints a picture. It’s called synesthesia, when your senses overlap like that.”

Seonghwa believes he’s heard the term before, but he’s never met anybody who experiences it. He’s not even familiar with the term, nor does he understand.

But it’s fascinating nonetheless.

In a way, Seonghwa can sympathize with him. When the world shuts off, when it’s just him and his brushes and paint and easel, when he’s in the zone, the colors become so much brighter. Every stroke, every brush across the canvas _matters._ He’s focused, immersed in a whole new world, just as he imagines Hongjoong is when he plays.

“That’s… that’s amazing, honestly,” Seonghwa says. “I’ve never met anyone who experiences anything like that, and, like, I’ll be honest and say I don’t really understand, but it’s… I don’t know.” Hongjoong is smiling again. “Tell me more about it.”

So he does.

Hongjoong demonstrates it for him as well, playing a variety of chords up and down the piano and naming the colors that he ‘hears’ when he plays them. The more Hongjoong speaks, the better Seonghwa feels like he’s understanding, even if he doesn’t experience it for himself. Somehow, the way Hongjoong describes it makes it easier to grasp.

He says it’s like splotches of colors in the sides of his vision, in the space between the outer corners of his eyes and his ears. When he closes his eyes, the colors appear in the black space, overlapping and swirling, trickling and dripping, like puddles of paints beneath his eyelids. When his eyes remain open, the colors lift off of the keys and curl around his head, wrapping him in a cloud of rippling colors. Sometimes, the music notes themselves will appear, the way they appear on the staff, colored in just the same.

Seonghwa is in awe.

Actually, that’s not even a strong enough word to describe how fascinated he is. With Hongjoong’s voice and words as the melody in the room, Seonghwa absorbs each and every one of them. He watches as Hongjoong explains again in the form of another self-composed melody, where he speaks the colors he hears as he plays.

Seonghwa takes note of every single color.

Royal blue, a lilac purple, burgundy, a swamp green, and yellow, the “inside of a lemon yellow.”

“Royal blue, lilac, burgundy, swamp green, and the inside of a lemon yellow,” Seonghwa repeats all the way back to his room, where he rummages through his paint collection in search of the perfect shades for Hongjoong’s song.

 _Colors that don’t seem like they’d work, but they do_.

Seonghwa understands.

-

Seonghwa’s saving grace is his painting class, the class that he actually excels at and _wants_ to participate in. His professor, a sturdy man by the name of Choi Jongho, is actually not much older than his students. At the ripe age of twenty-six, somehow, he’s become a teacher to those aspiring to be just as skillful as him.

In fact, most of his students just call him hyung or oppa just because he doesn’t like to feel old.

Jongho leads the class with a thunderous clap, grabbing the attention of his class. “Alright, everyone. I have a big assignment for you all, one that’s quite rewarding, if I do say so myself. It’s actually going to be part of your final project. Well, it _is_ your final project, along with a two page explanation of your piece.”

The class lets out a collective groan, which Seonghwa smirks at. “Hey, no moping,” Jongho chides. This project could actually be quite fun depending on how you look at it.” Jongho stands, collecting a stack of papers that he proceeds to hand out to the class. “Your final project will be a full-sized painting, meaning it must be at least fifty by seventy-five.”

“Ah, fuck,” a student mutters.

“Language!” Jongho admonishes, though he chuckles right afterwards. “Anyways, your canvas must be at least fifty by seventy-five centimeters. It can be portrait or landscape. However, the subject of your painting is completely freeform. I want you to come up with your _own_ subject. Your own personal muse. Whatever style you desire, whatever colors you want to use. Everything is in your hands for this project. What I _do_ require of you is a two-page explanation of your piece as well as a title. However you decide to write the explanation is up to you as well.” There’s a smug smirk on Jongho’s face as he passes out the last of the guideline sheets.

Seonghwa skims over the single page, which states exactly what Jongho explained, but at the bottom…

“I and other professors in the fine arts department will be evaluating each student’s piece and voting for three to display at the Seoul Arts Center during a very _special_ exhibition… that may or may not include a monetary prize.”

A few audible gasps. “There are going to be other universities participating in this exhibition. The three chosen here will have their pieces displayed, but the contest at the museum itself will hail three winners out of all participating universities. Third place gets three hundred thousand won, second place gets six hundred thousand, and first place gets one million.”

Seonghwa finds himself gasping along with the rest of the class. “So, here is where the fun part comes in. Your written explanation of the piece will only be seen by me. I will be the only one who knows your motive, your technique, or whatever you decide to include in your explanation. However, that being said, nobody else at the exhibit will know what your piece means. That is why it is _crucial_ that your piece _speaks_. That it tells a story. That people can look at it and _think_.”

Seonghwa thinks that can ring true for any piece of art. People can stare at a work of art and think all they want, for as long as they want. But knowing Jongho, Seonghwa knows what he means.

He wants a piece that holds a multitude of interpretations. He wants his students to go beyond a simple painting of a landscape or a scene from nature. He wants his students to paint something that will have people gazing and pondering it for hours. If not hours, than one hour.

An image is already brewing in Seonghwa’s brain.

“Of course, that whole contest is just an extraneous thing. While the top three will be entered into the contest, everyone must complete the project to the best of their abilities. I _am_ grading these, after all, and they will count for forty percent of your final grade.” Jongho returns to the front of the classroom, smiling with twinkling stars in his eyes as he gazes proudly at his students. “Any questions?”

“What about the rest of the semester?” a student pipes up. “Will we still be working on other projects?”

“Of course!” Jongho answers cheerfully. “I expect this project to be completed mostly on your own time. However, I will allow class time to work on this project as the due date draws nearer. In the meantime, we will still be working on smaller in-class projects and the occasional outside assignments.” Several students nod their heads in understanding.

Seonghwa is tempted to raise his hand and ask for the finer details, what Jongho’s _hidden_ behind the simplistic outline of the project, but he knows his cryptic professor won’t answer him. At least, he won’t answer in a way that’s helpful. There’s definitely something more to this project, not just “telling a story.” Not just something that people “look at and _think_.”

“No further questions? Anybody?” Jongho turns his head, scanning the room for any hands before announcing, “Okay, great! Now, for your in-class assignment for today…”

-

Jongho isn’t one to crack under any sort of pressure or interrogation, so maybe staying after class to ask the questions Seonghwa had been so afraid to ask during class isn’t the most useful thing to do, but he’s just so curious.

“Before you ask, Mr. Park, this project isn’t as deep as you think it is.” Jongho chuckles, fiddling with the expensive-looking watch around his wrist. “I understand you are a very critical thinker, but I promise you, this project may be the simplest thing I’ve assigned to date.”

“There’s no way,” Seonghwa says like it’s the truth, because it _is._ There’s no way this project is ‘simple’ like Jongho claims it to be. “There has to be some sort of deeper meaning. There have to be more things you’re looking for in this project.”

Jongho just chuckles and shakes his head as he leans forward in his swivel chair. “Seonghwa-ssi, I _promise_ you. The only things I’m looking for are the things listed on that paper,” he says, pointing to the paper in Seonghwa’s clutch. “Things aren’t all about being complex or simple. Sometimes, you don’t need to think all that much. Ah, let me rephrase that. I _do_ want this piece to be something that makes one think. However, you yourself shouldn’t have to think so much. Does that make sense?”

Seonghwa swears he sees Jongho wink.

“Y-Yeah,” he stammers, though he’s not entirely sure.

Yet.

He’ll figure it out.

-

Somehow, Seonghwa grows more comfortable going down to the basement level of the music building to see Hongjoong.

“Royal blue, lilac, burgundy, swamp green, and the inside of a lemon yellow.”

Hongjoong raises his head at Seonghwa’s listing of colors. “You… remember that?”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa says from his position at the door. His sketchbook lies in his lap, though it’s open to a blank page. “What’s… what’s the name of that song?”

“It’s called ‘Stay,’” Hongjoong says. “One of my earlier pieces.”

“Can you describe it to me more? Like… what do the colors look like when they float around your head?”

Hongjoong looks up as if he’s gazing at the stars, but he might as well be. Silver earrings dangle from his earlobes like those stars as he smiles, that _goddamn smile_ , and as soon as he starts speaking, Seonghwa raises his pencil to the page.

“The colors start off solid, kind of like how you’d see them on a computer screen. But then they kind of fade, like how they’d appear after a quick brush stroke. And they move in a constant stroke, up from my vision, around my head, and then, the world becomes colors. Not the colors that you and I are familiar with on a daily basis, but… the colors of the song. They become the world. And I’m the only one living in that world. It’s comforting. It’s kind of like a high, some sort of euphoria. But it’s also… it’s also pretty lonely.”

Seonghwa hates drawing circles. “Would you compare your head to the globe?”

Hongjoong laughs, playing a few discordant keys. “I don’t think so. Well, maybe. The Earth is chaotic, as is my head.”

Seonghwa stops midway through the circle and looks up. Hongjoong’s head is cocked to one side, one hand on the piano keys and one hand flat on the bench. He’s smiling faintly, and even though Seonghwa can’t see it clearly, he knows exactly what it looks like. “Sometimes… it feels like I hear colors that don’t even exist,” Hongjoong says, smile fading. “It’s weird. I’m weird.”

“You’re not weird,” Seonghwa says. “You’re unique.”

“I’m not going to disagree with you on that. I’m well aware that what I experience is pretty uncommon; therefore, it makes me unique. But… sometimes, it’s so suffocating, being surrounded by colors that nobody but yourself can see. Or hear. No matter how much I try to explain it, it feels like it’ll never make sense. Sometimes, I don’t even make sense to myself.”

Seonghwa looks down at the rough sketch of the circle he has at the bottom of the page, which appears more ovate, but he decides to roll with it. From the sides of the oval, he draws sprouts in the place of ears. “Does it really matter, though?” he asks as he extends the sprouts.

“What do you mean?”

“Whether or not what you experience makes sense to people,” Seonghwa answers, lifting his eyes from his sketch. “A lot of things don’t make sense. You’re you, people are people. I’m sure that other people with synesthesia experience it differently from you, so in that case, maybe your experience wouldn’t make sense even to those who have the same thing, you know what I mean?”

Hongjoong shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I just feel like things would be easier if it made sense, especially to me. Whenever I try to explain it, I sound crazy.”

From the sprouts, Seonghwa draws vines that cross over each other halfway up the page, forming an hourglass shape. “You don’t,” he says.

Hongjoong scoffs. “Yeah, okay.”

“You don’t,” Seonghwa reiterates. He draws lines in between the spaces of the hourglass, resulting in a pattern that looks sort of like DNA. “I’ll admit, I don’t understand what you mean most of the time because I don’t know what it’s like. You’re the only one who does. You explain it to the best of your abilities. Just because it might not make sense doesn’t mean it’s crazy.”

“It feels like I am,” Hongjoong murmurs. His head has dropped. “Sometimes I just wish my brain would just shut up. Maybe then I could sleep well at night. Maybe I could stop being so nervous. Maybe I could actually… do something with my life.”

Seonghwa presses his lips together and sets the sketchbook and pencil down beside him. “Is that what’s stopping you? Your synesthesia?”

Hongjoong doesn’t have to ask what Seonghwa means. He nods. “It’s an amazing thing, really,” he says, dropping both of his hands to the bench, head down and tucked in. It reminds Seonghwa of the first time he’d seen him. “It’s a peculiar phenomenon. It’s uncommon, unique, and extraordinary. It’s creative, and it makes me who I am. I’m a musician because of it. But fuck, Seonghwa, sometimes it’s goddamn _terrifying_.”

An unpleasant chord strikes in Seonghwa’s chest. _It’s a gift_ , he wants to say.

“My head is a mess. No matter where I go, it’s always colors colors colors with every sound I hear. Not just music. I heard a truck go by the other day and thought, ‘wow, that was a brilliant shade of orange, like a pumpkin.’ It’s frustrating. It’s amazing. It’s good and bad and everything in between, and sometimes, I just wish it would _stop_.”

 _It’s a gift and a curse_ , Hongjoong would probably say.

“I just… I want it to make sense. I want these colors to make sense. They’re everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I see them but I don’t. One thing’s for sure, though, and it’s that nobody else sees them. I know they’re not hallucinations or anything like that. It’s _real._ It’s a very real thing I experience. But… fuck, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Seonghwa says, slowly reaching over to pick up his sketchbook and pencil. “I’m really bad with words, in case you couldn’t tell, so I wish there was more I could say. But… well, I don’t know how helpful this is, but you’re not weird. You’re not a freak, you’re not hallucinating. It really is amazing, what your brain is capable of. It’s you… but it’s also not you.”

Hongjoong looks over at him with a confused frown. “What do you mean?”

“You aren’t just your synesthesia,” Seonghwa says, opening the sketchbook. “You’re not just the colors. Synesthesia is a part of you, but it’s not _you_. Don’t let it encompass you.”

At the bottom of the page, Seonghwa draws a neck and a pair of shoulders with the space he has left.

_Royal blue, lilac, burgundy, swamp green, and the inside of a lemon yellow._

“Things aren’t all about being simple or complex,” Seonghwa finds himself mumbling. “Sometimes, you don’t need to think all that much.”

Somehow, in some way, Seonghwa hopes that rings true for Hongjoong.

-

Seonghwa feels like he works in a way that is similar to most college students. He’ll have this one class that he’s particularly fond of, so he puts the majority of his effort into that one. The others, the more irrelevant ones that he can’t usually be bothered with, are the ones that he half-asses, but because he’s a fairly intelligent guy with exemplary persuasive writing and compelling public speaking skills, he’s able to ace his other classes with little effort (well, sculpting is a whole other issue).

He’s just glad he’s done with his required math courses.

At this point in time, his main focus is his painting class. He’d gone out and purchased a sixty by ninety centimeter canvas, the biggest size he could get without breaking his wallet, which now sits perched on an easel in one corner of his studio. It’s blank, and it probably will be for a little while, but that’s okay.

Right now, he’s focused on the project that’s due by the end of the week. After translating the sketch from his sketchbook over to the canvas, he now has a solid outline for his painting.

Above this figure’s head is what matters. What belongs to it. The all-encompasser, the one thing that makes it what it is. Nothing else.

It’s colorful. In a way, it reminds Seonghwa of the diagrams in his science textbooks, where parts of the body and atoms and molecules would be brightly colored to catch the eye’s attention. The rungs of the DNA alternate in colors, colors that shouldn’t work but do.

It’s not a textbook picture. Not by a long shot. It’s unique, colorful, and it tells a story, as terrifying as it may be. The head has no face, nothing but the DNA-like vines hovering above its head, springing from its ears.

Around the piece of DNA, Seonghwa splatters a swamp green and smears it into a cloud that descends past the head, down to the edge of the canvas. If he could submit it with the paint dripping, he would.

For this project, Jongho hadn’t assigned a written explanation. He said he wanted the title to explain the piece for itself.

Between the rungs of the DNA, Seonghwa writes in royal blue and the inside of a lemon yellow:

_TERRIFIED_

The word leaves a sour taste in Seonghwa's mouth.

-

“When am I going to meet the guy?” Wooyoung asks intrusively as he barges into Seonghwa’s bedroom.

“What?”

“Heard from San that you were chatting it up with your princess.” Wooyoung waggles his eyebrows suggestively before throwing himself onto Seonghwa’s bed. The impact of the jump actually causes the mattress to bounce, and Seonghwa bounces with it.

“Fucking hell, Wooyoung-ah!” Seonghwa exclaims, grabbing one of his pillows and chucking it at Wooyoung’s head. The younger screeches, tossing the pillow back to the head of the bed and shaking his head, frowning as he attempts to adjust his hair.

“It was just a question!”

“Yeah, and I would’ve given you an answer if you didn’t just launch yourself onto my bed!”

Wooyoung huffs, sitting up and regaining his posture. “Fine. So, this guy. What’s his name? How long have you been seeing him? Why haven’t you told me anything?”

“His name is Hongjoong. I’ve been seeing him for a few weeks. I haven’t told you anything because you’re annoying and I know you won’t leave me alone after this so I’ll have to murder you in cold blood and use your insides as paint.”

Wooyoung’s face twists in repulsion as he fake-gags off the side of the bed. Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “Okay, so, gruesome threats aside, when will I get to meet him? Are you going to invite him over? Wait, do you even have his number?”

Luckily, Seonghwa had actually managed to acquire Hongjoong’s number the last time he’d seen him, so at least he can answer that question. As for the other two, well…

“I don’t know,” Seonghwa answers. “He’s busy most of the time. Not to mention you are definitely a bit too… rowdy for his liking.”

“Hey! So what, he’s boring?”

“Not _boring_ , he’s…”

_Extraordinary. Talented. Beautiful._

“He’s just a bit on the shier side, that’s all. If you are going to meet him one day, you need to tone it down. And don’t be so insensitive.”

As annoying as Wooyoung can be, Seonghwa has _some_ faith in him. Wooyoung being in theater has made him mercurial, but at least he’s able to adapt to all sorts of social circles because of it. It was easy for him to get along with Yunho and the rest of ‘Wicked and Lovely’ because they all share the same obstreperousness that Seonghwa hates dealing with at ungodly hours of the night. The only downside was that the initial meeting had been four musicians versus one theater kid, the rivals of the school, and Seonghwa, the poor fine arts major, had been caught in the middle.

It all worked out, though, because there’d been a tension of a different kind between San and Wooyoung, not in the ‘who’s more important in the performing arts’ realm.

Before Wooyoung can ask any more questions, Seonghwa lists off all the answers he could possibly give, being that Hongjoong is his age, he plays the piano, he’s undecided, he’s shorter than both of them (Wooyoung squeals in delight), and he accidentally says something along the lines of, “And he’s talented beyond belief. You have no idea.”

He really, really needs to start helping his case of _I’m not whipped for Kim Hongjoong._

Surprisingly, however, Wooyoung doesn’t mention it. In fact, he takes Seonghwa by complete surprise, nodding while seemingly deep in thought as he rises up from the bed, slowly walking out of the bedroom while occasionally humming thoughtfully. “Hey! You’re not going to bug me more?” Seonghwa utters, something that he never thought he’d say.

“Goodnight, hyung!” Wooyoung responds before shutting his own bedroom door.

Seonghwa groans, falling back against his pillows. Maybe he really should stop thinking so much.

-

“Hey!”

Hongjoong’s voice cuts through the chilly autumn air, startling Seonghwa as a sudden gust of wind ruffles his hair. He fumbles to close his sketchbook as Hongjoong draws nearer, the crunch of dying grass beneath his feet. With autumn in full swing, there are fewer students out on the common, but this is where Seonghwa goes when he needs inspiration.

Well, it’s where Seonghwa goes that isn’t the practice room next to the bathroom on the basement level of the music building.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Seonghwa tries to say like he isn’t panicking just a bit.

“Yeah, I just got out of stats. Fucking shoot me.” Hongjoong chuckles, plopping down on the grass next to Seonghwa. “How did your last project go? The one for your painting class. Ah, what was it about again?”

“Oh, I submitted it yesterday,” Seonghwa says, sticking the pencil in between the binds of his sketchbook. “We had to paint something that showed an emotion, and the title of the work had to be that emotion in three words or less. Could be just the name of the emotion, which is what I did, or it could be an unnecessary three-word title.”

“I’m not a painter, but that doesn’t sound that hard to pull off,” Hongjoong says, chuckling. “Then again, art has plenty of ways of being interpreted.”

Seonghwa nods. “The thing about my professor is that there’s always something _else_ that he’s looking for. Something that he doesn’t put in the guidelines. He’s really cryptic about projects sometimes, which can make him a bit of a tough grader if his students don’t put a lot of thought or effort into their works. Basically, he wants his students to go beyond the guidelines.”

“And he doesn’t explicitly state what he wants?”

“Nope. I don’t know if I’m the only one who’s figured it out, but that’s why I like his class. I tend to… overthink things sometimes. So when I think about what he really wants, it motivates me to paint in a more outside-the-box way. To really put thought into what I paint. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m one of the few people in the class that actually puts thought _and_ effort into their works. I don’t paint just to make something pretty.”

Hongjoong purses his lips, brows slightly creased as he gazes at the trees masking the sun. The sunset isn’t all that colorful this evening, Seonghwa thinks. “Well, I don’t think that’s fair,” Hongjoong says, catching Seonghwa off guard. “You definitely just tooted your own horn there.”

“Hey! I was just saying.”

Hongjoong chuckles, lowering his head and smiling, a sight that Seonghwa’s become quite familiar with. He could probably draw it from memory.

“Seonghwa, artists of any kind put thought and effort into their work,” Hongjoong says. He crosses his legs and leans forward, his index finger sliding in between the blades of dead grass. He’s tracing indistinguishable shapes as he continues, “The amount you put in, whether it be more or less, doesn’t make you any better than them.”

“I—”

“Of course, I don’t mean to discredit any of the work you put into your art. But at the same time…” Hongjoong sighs, sliding the rest of his fingers into the grass. “I have a question. What do you think makes a true artist?”

Seonghwa finds himself at a loss for an answer despite his ability to overthink. Maybe it’s Hongjoong. Maybe it’s his presence that’s distracting him. Or maybe it’s because he doesn’t _know_ the answer, and that Hongjoong is challenging him to think in a way he’s never had to before.

He doesn’t know how he feels about it. That’s been Jongho’s job up until this point.

“Um… I don’t know.”

So much for appearing intellectual.

Still, the pianist just laughs lightheartedly, straightening up as his wipes his fingers on his black skinny jeans. They’re short, Seonghwa notices, but they’re filled with talent and virtuosity.

“I think… that there’s no right answer to that question,” Hongjoong says with a content smile. He looks so serene like this, eyes lazy and shoulders relaxed. Seonghwa wonders how many moments like this he has. How many breaks from the chaos he gets. “There’s no right answer when it comes to art. At least, there really shouldn’t be.”

Hongjoong turns to him, and when he does, Seonghwa realizes that he’s never seen Hongjoong this up close. Even when they sat on the piano bench together, there had been centimeters between them. Now, with their knees brushing against each other, Seonghwa can see him—his dark brown eyes, his silver earrings and matching silver hair. The creases and bags under his eyes, a freckle here and there.

Humans are all works of art, Seonghwa thinks, but this one, the one he’s looking at right now, it’s _different_ , and he can’t pinpoint exactly why.

“There’s no right or wrong answer when it comes to art of any kind, whether it be music or visual or performing. Even writing. Nothing is right, and nothing is wrong. Well, apart from the technical stuff, but you know what I mean.”

Seonghwa isn’t exactly sure if he knows what he means because he’s too entranced.

_What is it about Hongjoong that makes his heart feel like it’s bleeding off a page?_

“The thing is… I feel like artists should go into their craft knowing that their works aren’t going to be seen in the same light that they see it in. I’m sure you know this, but any sort of art can be interpreted in an infinite amount of ways. People can stare at a painting and think that it means _this_ , or that it conveys _this_ emotion. Same for music. People can hear a song’s lyrics or instrumentation and contemplate all the meanings and emotions of the piece, but only the artist who created the art will know what it truly means.”

Seonghwa thinks back to _TERRIFIED._ From one word, there’s no way Jongho would know what story that painting tells. Hongjoong could look at it and take a guess, a very educated one, but even then, only Seonghwa will know what the piece entails because he is the one who created it.

Well, not entirely.

“But what makes an artist… is for them to forget that that meaning ever existed. To accept all the not-right and not-wrong answers that any human could come up with and make _that_ the meaning. Yes, deep down, there will always be one intrinsic purpose, a motive, for creating a piece of art, but anyone who wants to be a true artist must be aware that their art will never have one right answer. If an artist can’t accept all the not-rights and not-wrongs of their art… then they’re not a true artist.”

A breeze rustles the trees again, the trees that Seonghwa has sketched and painted time and time again. He wonders if someone out there would see more than just the trees if he were to draw them again, if they would look past the surface, past the tinted lens, and see the moment in which they were painted.

Gazing out at the landscape, he opens to a fresh page in his sketchbook.

“Feeling inspired?” Hongjoong asks, a smile hidden in his voice.

“Yeah.”

An understatement, Seonghwa thinks.

“What’s your next assignment?”

“I don’t know,” Seonghwa answers.

“Well, it’s always good to have inspiration.”

 _You don’t even know_ , Seonghwa wants to tell him.

“Hongjoong,” he says without diverting his gaze, “what color would you say this moment is right now?”

It’s not a sound or a song, but Hongjoong answers anyway.

“Pink. Like, an orangey pink. Coral? Is that what the color is?”

Seonghwa laughs and glances up at the gray, overcast sky.

-

“Seonghwa-ssi,” Jongho’s voice announces through the bustling sound of students leaving. “A word, please.”

Seonghwa approaches the desk cautiously, knowing that he’s not necessarily in trouble, but he’s not sure if this is a good or bad thing.

“Your last piece,” Jongho says. “May I ask… what was it about?”

“What do you mean?” Seonghwa asks. “You didn’t ask for a written explanation.”

Jongho chuckles and shakes his head. “Of course, of course. I’m well aware of that. But something about this piece was different from your past ones. I can’t quite put my finger on it… therefore, I want to ask the source. Why was your figure… terrified?”

_It’s terrified because it’s worried that its life is only comprised of one thing. It’s terrified of that one thing. But it’s so, so beautiful, and I want them to see that. I want them to see that there is so much more to them than just their fear._

“Hyung, with all due respect, I don’t have the answer,” Seonghwa says, suppressing a smile as coral pink flashes in his brain.

Jongho narrows his eyes, though his lips are pressed in a thin smile. “Alright, Seonghwa-ssi. Thank you for your time.”

Seonghwa leaves the classroom with coral pink in his veins and wonders if this is even a fraction of what it’s like for Hongjoong.

-

Seonghwa thinks back to the time when Hongjoong said he might mess up because he gets nervous in front of other people. Out of all the times Seonghwa has heard Hongjoong play, he hasn’t once caught onto any sort of mistake. No blips, no stutters, no wrong notes. Nothing. It’s always smooth sailing, like one long, bold stroke.

“That one is called ‘Aurora,’” Hongjoong tells him. They’re much closer to each other on the piano bench now, hip-to-hip. Despite the closeness, Hongjoong had still been able to play the song in its entire range. “It was actually one of my earliest piece. I think I composed it around… four years ago.”

“How long have you been playing?”

“Since I was nine, give or take. Took piano lessons for about two years, but from then on I taught myself. The synesthesia helped a lot.”

Seonghwa chuckles. He can imagine how useful it would be to have sheet music in the form of colors right at his disposal. “’Aurora,’” Hongjoong says, “is exactly what you’d think it would be. What colors do you think ‘Aurora’ is, Seonghwa?”

“Um… blue? Green?”

Hongjoong nods and plays a black key. “This note is A flat, or G sharp, if you want to get technical with enharmonic equivalents. To me, A flat is a dark blue. Navy blue. The song ‘Aurora’ is in the key of A flat major. You see, Seonghwa, I didn’t name the song ‘Aurora’ for nothing. I came up with the title after I composed the song, because all of its colors reminded me of an aurora. Of course, that’s not always the case, kind of like how it was with ‘Stay.’”

“So ‘Aurora’ is blue? What else?”

“Watch.” Hongjoong plays the A flat again, along with two other notes to form a chord. “This is the A flat major chord. It’s comprised of A flat, C, and E flat. A flat is navy blue, C is a sky blue, and E flat is, like, a light purple-blue. Periwinkle, I think. Is that right?”

Seonghwa chuckles and makes a mental note of the blues. “Yeah. Periwinkle is a mix of blue, red, and white with a focus on blue. So yes, a light purple-blue.”

“Yeah, that,” Hongjoong says. “But of course, the song isn’t just A flat major chords all the way through, obviously. So with all the chords used in the song, all the notes that form the melody, and the overlaying key signature of A flat major, you get the colors of an aurora. Hence the name of the song. Blues are the main focus, but there are also neon greens, radiant violets, even white and a sprinkle of gold.”

“What about ‘Treasure?’”

“’Treasure’ is probably my most colorful song. After all… there are so many things out there that could be considered treasure. But I think the most prevalent color in that song is red. A deep, ruby red.”

Seonghwa nods, writing the colors on the bench with his fingers.

“Sorry,” Hongjoong says, cheeks flushing a coral pink. “I know it must be confusing.”

“Stop apologizing,” Seonghwa chides gently, tilting his head as he leans forward slightly, watching as Hongjoong’s signature shy smile appears. “You’re right, it’s confusing because I know jack shit about notes and key signatures, but I _do_ know a thing or two about colors. I’d say we make a pretty good team, don’t you?”

Hongjoong turns his head to look at him, his tired eyes blinking lazily beneath his glasses. His smile grows as coral pink surges in Seonghwa’s mind. “Y-Yeah. A good team.” He quickly averts his gaze as a blush rises in his cheeks.

Adorable, Seonghwa thinks.

When Seonghwa gets home, Wooyoung greets him with a sarcastically enthusiastic hello, but he simply strides past him into his studio where he pulls out his sketchbook and draws a rough outline of a sky that he’s never drawn or painted before. A sky that will be overtaken by unnatural colors, of blues and greens and purples and coral pink.

Colors that shouldn’t work, but they do.

He doesn’t know what Jongho’s next assignment will be, but he _will_ submit this and make it work.

Hongjoong’s art needs to be seen. Needs to be _heard._

-

“Quite an interesting landscape,” Jongho says after class, having pulled Seonghwa aside again. He has Seonghwa’s canvas perched on his lap, a coral pink sky ripping into the colors of ‘Aurora,’ reminding him of a dimensional rift of sorts that he sees in movies. It’s fantastical, colorful, and it just _spells_ Hongjoong. “I must say, Seonghwa-ssi, these past two paintings of yours have been quite different from your usual style.”

“What is my usual style?” Seonghwa asks with a smirk.

Jongho returns one right back. “Well, you’re an exceptionally talented artist who clearly puts a lot of thought and effort into his pieces. It’s hard to describe a _style_ , but… it’s almost as if you’re being a bit more experimental with your pieces. Using colors that you normally don’t use, not following much of a color scheme. And yet, you’ve been making it work.”

“Oh, um, thank you, hyung.”

“Have you started on your final project yet? I know that the due date is still two months and some away, but I’m sure you’ve at least been putting thought into what you want to do.”

Seonghwa nods, grinning as he thinks about the page tucked away in his sketchbook. “Definitely, hyung.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Jongho says with a slight bow of the head.

Seonghwa is dismissed, and on the way to his dreaded sculpting class, he hums his everlasting earworm.

-

 _“A major. It’s red, hands down. Even F sharp minor, which is its relative minor, is red. ‘Treasure’ is actually in the key of F sharp minor, or A major if you want to think of it as such. That’s why it has ruby red in it. But anything A major is red, any shade of red that you can think of. This song… even the_ word _sounds red to me, so I composed it in the key of A major.”_

Seonghwa presses his lips together in a thin line as he breaks out every red he has in his collection, even opting for bringing out shades of pink. When his eyes land on ruby red, he holds the bottle in his hand and stares at it before ultimately setting it aside.

For another day, he thinks.

_“It’s like… the brightest maraschino cherry. A fully ripe strawberry and the darkest red rose. But in no way is it orange. Orange is for B flat, not A.”_

Seonghwa ends up with sixteen shades of red and six shades of reddish pink once he puts away those with orange tints.

In her chalice, Seonghwa paints a mushy concoction of maraschino cherries and the ripest strawberries. Her lips are stained from consuming them day after day, but they are his favorite foods. She needs to remember him. Saccharine sweet, she basks in the favorite color of her lover, who had left her with her favorite flower, a deep red rose, and the promise that he would return.

There’s no way of telling whether or not he comes back for her. There’s no right or wrong answer.

He signs it at three in the morning and titles it ‘Promise.’

-

How Hongjoong ends up meeting Seonghwa’s friends isn’t ideal.

It’s seven something, the sun having abandoned the sky entirely as midnight blue spills over and silver moonlight beats down. The incandescent lights of the tiny café are B flat according to Hongjoong, at least, one of the shades of “yellow-orange-brown” that he often sees while playing a piece in that key signature. He sips a mug of black coffee because bitterness is a pretty green apple green and “it’s not like he’s going to sleep tonight anyway.”

Then, Wicked and Lovely storms into the café with their rambunctious conversation about who knows what, and of course, Yunho, San, and Mingi are holding their guitars dear.

“Shit,” Seonghwa mutters.

Hongjoong glances past him at the rowdy bunch. “Oh, that’s Yunho and his friends, right?”

“Yeah… it’s his band. Well, not _his_ band. But like, he’s a member of it. They call themselves Wicked and Lovely. Apparently Yeosang came up with that name, since he thinks he’s the only ‘lovely’ member of the band, but if he’s going by that logic, they might as well have just called the band ‘Wicked.’” Hongjoong snickers, eyes remaining on the band.

Lo and behold, it doesn’t take long for them to notice Seonghwa and Hongjonog’s presence, and Yunho, that shameless bastard, has no qualms approaching them. “Yo, hyung! Is this the Hongjoong guy you keep talking about?” he bellows, landing a rough love pat on Seonghwa’s shoulder.

Seonghwa’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head while Hongjoong just chuckles. “Yeah, that would be me,” he answers, glancing over at Seonghwa, clearly amused. “And you’re Jeong Yunho, bassist in jazz band.”

“Whoa, you talk about me that much, hyung?” Yunho says, continuing to rub Seonghwa’s shoulder, ignoring the older’s obvious discomfort.

“No, I just know you because I’ve seen your performances,” Hongjoong replies as the rest of the band approaches.

“Oh, is this mister music prodigy?” San asks half condescendingly as he joins Yunho by his side, only to be elbowed in the ribs by Mingi. “What? Seonghwa-hyung’s words, not mine.”

“Hardly,” Hongjoong responds dismissively. “I just play the piano.”

“Forgive him and his big mouth,” Mingi says. “Seonghwa-hyung’s told us about you, though. Says that you’re really talented. I trust him in that you must be really good at what you do. Sannie here’s just jealous. Killer on guitar, very mediocre at piano, and has an ego the size of an elephant but a brain the size of a jellyfish’s.”

“Jellyfish don’t have—” San’s mouth drops open as Mingi just smirks his way. “Fuck you.”

Hongjoong chuckles. “Well, it’s nice to meet all of you. I’m Kim Hongjoong.”

The members take turns introducing themselves, San the least enthusiastic, but at least he’s being civil, Seonghwa thinks. They gather chairs from the surrounding tables and huddle around Seonghwa’s table, completely uncalled for, but no matter how much he pleas, he knows they won’t leave them alone, so he goes along with it.

“Do you play any other instruments?” Yunho asks.

“No, just piano,” Hongjoong says. “I might have picked up a guitar once or twice in my life, but I’ve never sat down and played.”

“You wanna try it out?” Yunho asks, bending down to unzip the case to his acoustic.

There’s enough space in the booth for Hongjoong to play. He strums each string, lips pursed in concentration as he adjusts the tuning keys. “You sure you’ve never played before?” Yunho asks, watching Hongjoong twist the last tuning key.

“Nope. The strings just sounded a bit out of tune,” Hongjoong says. He strums the strings altogether, a familiar chord to Seonghwa as he’s heard Yunho play plenty of times. “Each fret is a half step, right?”

“Yeah.” The members of Wicked and Lovely watch with attentive eyes, but Seonghwa just smiles as Hongjoong starts up a familiar melody.

It’s almost as if he’s been playing guitar for at least a few months.

Without a pick, Hongjoong plucks the strings in the melody of ‘Treasure,’ the very song that the members had doubted, and Seonghwa’s smile only continues to grow as Hongjoong’s eyes close. He wonders if Hongjoong is seeing the same colors or if the timbre of the guitar generates slightly different ones. From the way he plays, Seonghwa would have guessed that he’s played guitar for a long time.

The members of Wicked and Lovely watch with wide eyes while San is left completely slack-jawed. Seonghwa suppresses the urge to laugh in his face.

However, with his delicate fingers unaccustomed to the steel strings, Hongjoong doesn’t play for long. He stretches them out and shakes his hands before handing the guitar back to Yunho. “Sorry, I don’t play so my fingers don’t have calluses.”

“You’re shitting me,” San says. “There’s no way you haven’t played before.”

“I really haven’t,” Hongjoong replies, though his voice noticeably shrinks.

“Hey, lay off, San-ah,” Yunho scolds with a deep frown. “That was really good, Hongjoong. That was the song, right? The one that Seonghwa heard you play? I recognize it ‘cause he wouldn’t stop humming it for days.”

Hongjoong’s smile reappears. “Y-Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I’m sure it sounds even better on piano if that’s your main instrument,” Mingi says. “You’ve seriously never played guitar before? If I had to guess, I’d assume you’ve been playing for years.”

“My fingers definitely prove otherwise.” Hongjoong stretches his fingers again, the tips having turned red as he attempts to dispel the curved imprints of the strings.

“You have perfect pitch?” Yunho asks.

It takes Hongjoong a few seconds, but he nods wordlessly, nervously, averting his gaze from the members. “Holy shit, that’s amazing!” Yunho suddenly exclaims, his entire face lighting up like a stage. “I have pretty good relative pitch, but it’s not perfect. I guess that explains how you were able to play so well.”

“San _wishes_ he had perfect pitch,” Yeosang comments snidely.

“Tch.” San crosses his arms and eyes Hongjoong reluctantly. “Look, I’m sorry for being an asshole. They’re always telling me I’ve got ego issues.”

“Because you do, and this is a prime example of that. There are always going to be people that are better than you, and you have to accept that,” Mingi says.

“Well, that’s not fair,” Hongjoong suddenly speaks up. “I’m sure San is extremely talented. One’s ability to pick up music doesn’t make them ‘better’ than anyone else. Since when did art become a competition? Everyone should be celebrating each other’s abilities, not comparing them and using it to determine who’s ‘better.’ We’re all artists, and that’s what matters.”

The members gape at Hongjoong in surprise, but Seonghwa looks at him with coral pink pride swelling in his chest. When he glances over at San, he can see the guitarist wearing a warm smile, clearly comforted by Hongjoong’s words.

“I think I underestimated you, like, a ton,” San says. “I’m… really sorry.”

Hongjoong smiles at him and bows his head. “It’s okay. Really, perfect pitch doesn’t make me better than any musician. There’s still a ton I can’t do, and that’s okay.” He briefly glances over at Seonghwa, his smile growing. “Talent isn’t comparable. Abilities, maybe, but that’s where practice and hard work comes in. If people pride themselves solely on their ability to play instruments, they set themselves up for disappointment if someone comes along and plays a song that they can’t. The art world is both a cruel and beautiful place, isn’t it?”

“You sure you’re not a writer too?” Yunho asks.

“No, not by a long shot. I’ve tried writing lyrics for the songs I compose, but I prefer them to be just instrumental pieces.”

“Either way, you’re really cool, Hongjoong.”

“Oh, th-thank you.”

Almost as if they _know_ , the members don’t stay for long, leaving Seonghwa and Hongjoong alone again after a few more minutes of praise and discussing their favorite key signatures. Seongwha recognizes some of the music terminology now. How A flat major is his favorite key signature and all of its blues. Yunho says his favorite key signature is C major because it’s simple and happy, and he’s a simple and happy guy. Seonghwa knows that Hongjoong sees C major as a serene summer day, in blue and yellow specifically, and sees G minor, Yeosang and San’s favorite, as a dark plum with a mixture of gray-blue. Mingi’s favorite is D major, several shades of purple depending on the piece.

All of which Hongjoong never says during their discussion, but Seonghwa sort of wishes that he would.

-

_”I composed this song when I was really sad one day. It’s in F minor, the relative minor to A flat major, but it’s far from my favorite key signature. I tried to make it sound a little happier towards the end, but it resolves pretty abruptly. I was… really anxious at this time. Really frustrated. F minor is a dark gray with ugly swamp green and midnight blue… but you probably think that there isn’t such thing as an ugly color, right? Ha, maybe I should stop being a hypocrite. I’m not perfect, clearly.”_

Hongjoong is right in that Seonghwa doesn’t think there’s such thing as an ugly color. When incorporated effectively, every color can be beautiful, no matter how dark.

Hongjoong isn’t perfect, just like there isn’t such thing as a perfect color. But it makes Seonghwa think, is there really such thing as perfection?

Seonghwa has painted plenty of landscapes in his lifetime, but nothing quite like this. A lone man walking down a dirt path on a midnight celestial road, stars below him instead of above, with a dreary mist shrouding his future. Off to the side is a steep hill, and at the bottom, there is a murky green swamp where all of his fears are waiting to devour him whole.

There is no way of telling whether the man breaks through the mist or tumbles down the hill, but one thing is for sure. He keeps on walking down that beautiful path, and the way Seonghwa sees it, he makes it.

With the inside of a lemon yellow and green apple green specks, he paints fireflies that glow through the mist.

-

At this point, Seonghwa doesn’t submit half of what he paints. He keeps them all on their own separate easels or hangs them up on nails hammered into his wall. He still keeps up with the smaller assignments Jongho assigns, but the majority of his room is now occupied by Hongjoong’s masterpieces.

And now, he has his biggest task to undertake.

The blank canvas is staring him dead in the face, waiting to be filled, and Seonghwa knows exactly what he wants to do.

He starts by opening his sketchbook to a page that he hasn’t seen for quite a while, having hidden it away for the day he began working on his biggest piece to date.

_“Hongjoong, I know you said ‘Treasure’ is a ruby red, but what else is it?”_

_“It’s a lot. Like I said, it’s probably my most colorful piece. Imagine a giant mound of gleaming treasure right in front of you. What would you see? Endless amounts of gold, silver, and jewels of red, green, and blue. But there’s even more than that. It’s everything.”_

_“Is there coral pink?”_

_“If you want there to be. What’s your favorite color, Seonghwa?”_

_“Hm… I’d say just plain white. The absence of color itself.”_

_“Interesting.”_

_“What about you? What’s your favorite color?”_

_“Seonghwa, if you know me by now, you know that I can’t just pick one color. My world is color itself. Therefore, my favorite color is the presence of color itself.”_

Seonghwa knows that it’s impossible to use every color in existence. After all, as extensive as his collection is, he knows that he has nowhere near every color that exists. With Hongjoong, who knows what colors his brain generates?

_“Sometimes, it feels like I hear colors that don’t exist.”_

And it may very well be true.

Using too many colors can be detrimental to a piece, but that’s a challenge Seonghwa is willing to take. He will make it work.

-

“An art competition?”

Seonghwa nods. “Yeah, well, that’s only if my piece is chosen.”

“You know, I’ve never actually seen any of your work.” Hongjoong plays some notes in rapid succession. “When will I be able to view the masterpieces of Park Seonghwa?”

Seonghwa laughs internally. If only Hongjoong knew whose masterpieces his paintings truly are.

“If I’m being honest, I’m keeping you out of my apartment because of my roommate. He’s… worse than all the members of Wicked and Lovely combined.”

“I’m sure he’s lovely.”

“You don’t know how wrong you are.”

The two of them laugh, reminding Seonghwa of how Hongjoong had described his laugh as a fuchsia pink, how he himself is all shades of pink. Seonghwa knows that Hongjoong must describe himself as all colors.

In Seonghwa’s eyes, that’s what Hongjoong is.

He believes that there is no such thing as an ugly color. Combined, every color has the potential to create something beautiful. If Hongjoong equates to every color in the universe, even the ones that Seonghwa can’t see, it would make Hongjoong the most beautiful thing in the universe. Everything is subjective, a notion that Hongjoong emphasizes constantly, but that doesn’t stop Seonghwa from seeing Hongjoong in the most brilliant light, the epitome of beauty in all shapes and forms and colors. A rainbow spotlight that shines on the man with golden ears and a kaleidoscope brain, overlooking the fears, the hardships, and everything that comes with the burdensome conflict of both loving and hating his exceptional ability.

Seonghwa wants Hongjoong to see that his masterpieces are everything extraordinary, terrifying, and anything in between. To let go of his fear and see that his creations are unlike any other, that they are beautiful despite the anxiety. That they don’t _have_ to make sense. That what matters is _him_ , not just his songs or the notes that float around his head.

“Hey, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa says, “can you play ‘Treasure’ again?”

Hongjoong grins, immediately straightening his posture as his fingers assume their position. “Of course.”

As Hongjoong plays Seonghwa’s favorite melody, the artist opens up to the piano in his sketchbook. In this familiar scene, with his back against the door, sketchbook open in his lap, Seonghwa draws imperfect lines and curves above and below the bench.

 _Ruby red_ , Seonghwa writes below the figure’s feet.

_Royal blue. The inside of a lemon yellow. A swamp, a green apple, and gleaming emeralds. Lilac. Burgundy. Sapphires. Gold. Silver._

_Navy blue, midnight blue, sky blue. The brightest and darkest reds. Yellow-orange-brown. Terrified grays._

_Coral pink._

-

“Hyung, can I talk to you for a second?”

Jongho nods, motioning for Seonghwa to take a seat in the chair in front of his desk. “Something I can help you with? Any questions about the final project?”

“N-No, not really. Just… I just wanna talk to you about something. Something I think you should know.”

“Should I be worried?” Jongho asks.

“No, definitely not.” Seonghwa takes a deep breath. “Remember how you told me that my style has changed, that I’m being more experimental, not following a color scheme, things like that?”

“Yes, I remember that as well.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s my style that’s changed,” Seonghwa says as he twiddles his thumbs. “I think it’s… it’s my muse that’s changed. I’ve found something extraordinary, something amazing. And I want you to know what it is.”

Jongho leans in, resting his chin on his clasped hands, appearing intrigued with narrow eyes. “I’m listening.”

Seonghwa bites his bottom lip. “It’s… well, it’s like I said. It’s amazing. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever known. It’s terrifying and beautiful and chaotic.”

Jongho breaks into a suspecting grin. “’It’ is a person, am I right?”

Seonghwa hesitates before answering, “Yes. And people should know his art.”

“I don’t think I follow. What do you mean by _his_ art?”

Seonghwa smiles and glances down at his interlocked fingers. “He’s my muse for my final project. That’s what I want you to know.”

They share several seconds of silence, Jongho smiling all-knowingly while Seonghwa avoids his gaze. “People are always inspiring. They influence us without us even being aware. But it seems that you’re well aware of his influence.”

“The last two paintings I’ve submitted were his. Well, not _his_ his, but…”

“I’m not going to accuse you of plagiarism or anything like that, if that’s what you’re hinting at. Unless you actually _did_ steal his art—”

“No! Those were definitely painted by me. He’s a musician.”

“Oh?”

“I want him to know that he’s so much more than the colors he hears. _That_ is why he’s my muse. He needs to know that his art is beautiful, that _he_ is beautiful. His art needs to be shared with the world, but he’s terrified. He wants to be a performer, but his own abilities hold him back. I just… want him to be free from himself.”

Seonghwa knows that stage fright isn’t something that just goes away, but that’s the least of Seonghwa’s worries. What he wants is for Hongjoong to break free, to love and accept the colors with open arms instead of shutting them away in a practice room.

Through Seonghwa’s paintings, his songs can be heard.

“Terrified… I see.” Jongho nods. “It sounds as if he’s very important to you.”

“Yes.”

“Have you told him? Have you shown him your pieces?”

“No. It’s just… never the right time, I guess. I don’t know.”

Jongho chuckles and leans back, clearly amused. “I don’t know this person, but if he is your muse, well… he’s created some extraordinary pieces of art.”

If only Jongho knew the extent of that statement.

“He won’t know his own abilities unless you show him, Seonghwa-ssi. He’s shared his art with you. You should share your art, _his_ art, with him as well. Synesthesia is an amazing thing. He should be proud of it.”

Seonghwa chuckles at Jongho’s keenness. “He is. But he’s also scared of it.”

“Synesthesia isn’t a disease or a mental illness. Of course, I can’t speak for him, but if he’s worried about what other people would think of him because of it… well, he shouldn’t be. Artists and musicians would kill to have something as amazing as synesthesia. Well, not literally, but it’s an astounding phenomenon that he should be nothing but proud of.”

“Trust me, I agree with you completely.”

“I’m excited to see what you submit for your final project, Seonghwa-ssi.” Jongho smiles reassuringly. “I can’t wait to hear his art.”

-

Seonghwa paints until his fingers are numb.

With the onslaught of winter, he spends his nights in his studio, where he spreads Hongjoong’s colors across the canvas with proud coral pink in his blood. He swears he can’t stop smiling as Hongjoong’s smile replays in his head, his new earworm, his new favorite song. He figures he should probably turn the heat up, but when he’s wide awake and hyperfocused on the painting in front of him, he can’t spare a moment of rest until he’s satisfied with the night’s work.

He’ll paint until his eyeballs sting. He’ll paint until his hands become so cold that they can’t move. Hongjoong would probably scold him, but so is the sacrifice Seonghwa will make.

Off to the sides of the canvas sit the songs that led up to this one. ‘Stay,’ ‘Aurora,’ ‘Promise,’ ‘Mist.’ Other smaller, unnamed melodies. The key signatures themselves. They watch as Seonghwa paints the nights away, as he brings to life the very song that brought Hongjoong to him in the first place.

In the middle, there is a star.

-

_I know that I’ve already told you about the muse behind this painting, but allow me to tell you a little story._

_A few months ago, I heard a song. I went to the bathroom on the basement floor of the music building after my friend’s concert. Behind the wall, someone was playing piano even though a performance had just ended. Come to find out, it was my muse, and the song was called ‘Treasure.’_

_At the time, I didn’t know. I only learned his name because I finally worked up the balls to go back down to the practice room to see if he was there. The first time, I went into the practice room before he showed up, and when he did, I startled him so much that he ran away from me. The second time, he was there first, and that was when we actually introduced ourselves to each other._

_He told me that he’s always in that practice room because he doesn’t like his roommate, but also because music is his entire life. I’ve seen that firsthand. He’s talented, extremely so, and before him, I had never met anybody with an ability quite like his. He hears colors, a phenomenon known as synesthesia, where one sense is stimulated but two occur._

_I don’t know a lot about music. He’d talk about music theory and key signatures and honestly, from how much I’ve heard him talk about things like that, I think I’m sort of understanding. Somehow, by telling me that A flat major is all shades of blue and A major is all shades of red, it makes sense to me. Maybe it’s because I’m a painter. Because he knows both worlds, we are able to share one._

_I’m a painter, but he isn’t. He’s expressed his frustrations with me, how none of it makes any sense no matter how he tries to explain it. To me, it makes sense and doesn’t make sense at the same time. I can’t see music notes floating around my head, nor can I recognize a key signature just by hearing it, nor can I play the piano in general. At the same time, he doesn’t know how to paint, he doesn’t know all the shades and hues of colors, and he’s terrified of sharing his art._

_I, on the other hand, am not scared of sharing my art, nor am I scared of showing his. He actually doesn’t know about this painting yet. I kind of want to surprise him._

_He keeps himself locked away in the practice room, but as much as I want him to share his art, I don’t want to force him out of the place in which he creates it. I wholeheartedly believe that he will break out of his shell one day. As afraid as he is, he is bold and speaks beautifully. He knows what it means to be a true artist._

_He knows that art has no right or wrong answer. He knows that one art form is not ‘better’ than another and that the intricacy of one’s artwork doesn’t make them better than another. Art should not be comparable. He believes that in order to achieve true artistry, one must accept all the not-rights and not-wrongs and embrace the fact that their works will not always be interpreted how they intended. That the artist themselves should throw the meaning of their artwork out the window because there are an infinite amount of meanings and answers that are neither right nor wrong._

_Art exists for people to enjoy. Even though one may dislike a piece of art, another one might like it. There’s a saying, ‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.’ Coincidentally, the name of the song that brought me to him is ‘Treasure.’_

He _is my treasure. I will let him know that… eventually._

_But that is not what I call this piece. Prior to this painting, I’ve named my paintings, his songs, after their titles. Though this song is called ‘Treasure,’ this painting is much, much more than the song. Of course, only I, and now you, know the muse, the meaning, the answer behind this painting. And now, I must relinquish it. However, that doesn’t mean that this painting isn’t a reminder of who inspires me to no end. It doesn’t mean that this painting loses its importance._

_He will always be important._

_I title this work ‘A Masterpiece of Colors and Chaos.’ His mind is beautiful and chaotic. His pieces are extraordinary. He sees,_ hears _, colors we can’t. He is proud and terrified._

_He is a masterpiece, and I want him to see that one day._

-

Glancing nervously at his watch, Seonghwa’s heart picks up speed as a small crowd gathers before the podium where the winners will be announced.

_“Ah, I’m actually visiting my parents that weekend, but I’ll try my best to make it! I really want to see your painting!”_

It’s okay, Seonghwa thinks.

He doesn’t need some big award ceremony to reveal his art to Hongjoong. It doesn’t matter how many people see or if he wins the money or not. He’s glad to have had it displayed in front of other artists in the first place.

Now, Hongjoong’s songs have been heard. That’s what matters.

Seonghwa is loading his canvas into the backseat of his car when he hears approaching footsteps, thudding against the wet pavement. “Oh, fuck! I missed it!” Hongjoong exclaims, panting. “God, Seonghwa, I’m so fucking sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,” Seonghwa says with a reassuring smile.

Hongjoong’s shoulders slump, a cloud of vapor escaping his lips. “I feel so bad. I should’ve been there.”

“You had family stuff. It’s okay. Besides, I don’t need some extravagant art display to show you what I painted.”

“Still—”

“Hongjoong.” Seonghwa puts both his hands on Hongjoong’s shoulders and squeezes firmly. “It’s _okay._ I’m heading back to my place, and you can come along if you want. You can see this painting and all my other ones.”

Hongjoong pouts (again, fucking adorable) before he agrees and climbs into the passenger’s seat of Seonghwa’s car.

“Did you win?” Hongjoong asks.

Seonghwa chuckles as he turns on the radio.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at Hongjoong. His face is shrouded behind a thick blue scarf, transparent glasses on the bridge of his nose. His eyes and silver jewelry gleam even in the darkness. His dark roots are growing in. His faded hair is disheveled.

But he is so, so beautiful. A colorful, chaotic mess. A true masterpiece.

“I did.”

Seonghwa isn't any richer, but he knows, he _knows_ , he has won.

-

Thank god Wooyoung has his final performance tonight; Seonghwa doesn’t have the patience to deal with his obnoxious intrusions. With Hongjoong’s help, Seonghwa lugs the large canvas back into his studio where he rests it back on its easel, though it remains covered by the black tarp.

“So, do I get to see it now?” Hongjoong asks.

“Well, you haven’t seen my others yet. Have to work up to the grand finale, you know?” Seonghwa chuckles, unmasking his other creations.

It takes Hongjoong several moments to process what he’s seeing. After all, he’s never seen them quite like this. Locked away in his brain, the colors have always been isolated. Lonely. They’ve never made sense, not even to the person who hears them.

But now, he _sees_ them. In the flesh, on painted canvases, through the eyes of someone besides himself. Someone who _listens._ Someone who tries to understand.

“Seonghwa, I…”

Hongjoong gazes at the paintings in awe, his hands coming up to shield his dropped mouth. He ventures towards each one with cautious steps, as if his own masterpieces would jump out at him. From his fully composed songs to the freeform melodies, from the single notes to their respective key signatures, Hongjoong admires all of them with tears welling up in his eyes.

“You didn’t. You absolutely didn’t.” He lowers his hands from his mouth and clutches his chest as he sniffles, backing away from his paintings and stares at all of them in one collective scene, with Seonghwa’s biggest painting smack dab in the middle.

“Here.” Seonghwa stands proudly next to his final project, the masterpiece he’d spent days and nights perfecting, just as he’d done as the winners of the contest were announced. He grins as he strips away the tarp, revealing his muse, the very masterpiece that he’s loved since coral pink skies.

In the center, Hongjoong sits at his beloved piano as his fingers conquer the keys. Colors seep out from the instrument and pool onto the floor. Hongjoong is so tired, the bags under his eyes a terrified gray, but he is smiling that same smile that Seonghwa has come to memorize. A whirlwind of colors circle around his head in the form of music notes, the staff wrapping around his body, constricting yet liberating him at the same time.

In his world of colors, above him rests a coral pink sky.

The colors don’t work, but they do.

“Seonghwa… I don’t—” Hongjoong’s voice trembles as his bottom lip quivers. He blinks away oncoming tears, tears that Seonghwa would have painted as gold. “I don’t know what to say. I just… I can’t believe you painted these.”

“I’m sorry if it’s overwhelming. I’ve been meaning to show you them for a while, but with my roommate being kind of an asshole and all, it’s been hard to—”

Before Seonghwa can finish his thought, Hongjoong is surging forward and pressing his lips to his, grabbing onto the back of his head. With a sharp, surprised inhale, Seonghwa startles before his brain short-circuits and his instincts kick in, slowly sliding his hands around Hongjoong’s waist.

He tastes like tears and cherries.

When he pulls away, he links his other arm around Seonghwa’s neck and holds him in, forehead to forehead. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“I wanted to,” Seonghwa murmurs. “You inspired me in the time I needed it most. Your art deserves to be seen. To be _heard._ ” He disconnects their foreheads and admires the pearls and silver in his eyes. They shine magnificently. “They got to hear you. _I_ got to hear you. And I am so, so thankful that I got to meet someone as incredible as you.”

Hongjoong kisses him again in the yellow-orange-brown light of Seonghwa’s studio, under a midnight sky, but this moment has never been more coral pink.

“It makes sense,” Hongjoong whispers against his lips. “Thank you so much… for making it make sense.”

From his brilliant, terrified mind to a blank canvas, his colors are finally free, splashed onto the absence of color itself, something that he can now _see._

Seonghwa can see it now.

The future is a dark mist, full of terrifying possibilities and daunting uncertainties, but there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. Fruity fireflies dance in the distance where the cosmic road winds and twists into plenty of different paths to take, but so long as Hongjoong’s colors are there to guide them, Seonghwa can see the treasure awaiting them.

There is no cash prize. There is no gargantuan mound of gold and gems.

It’s him. Extraordinarily, beautifully, unabashedly him.

-

An ardent red.

Seonghwa doesn’t really know if there’s a specific shade name for that red. But according to Hongjoong, that is the color that fills the room whenever they lie together.

“You’re staring,” Hongjoong says matter-of-factly as Seonghwa hovers above him and drinks him in like an artist to a masterpiece.

“Can’t help it,” Seonghwa replies, finally dipping down to press kisses along Hongjoong’s chest, hands caressing his sides. “You’re beautiful.”

Hongjoong’s head tilts backward, his back arching off the bed as Seonghwa runs his fingers along his ribs, down, down, down, until Hongjoong’s head is bursting with color and begging for more. Seonghwa indulges him, relieving him of his garments and licking a single stripe up his hardening cock.

“Seonghwa, p-please,” Hongjoong moans as Seonghwa engulfs the head, curling his tongue around it and glancing up at his lover.

An ardent red, a striking blue, and an electric violet.

That is what Seonghwa’s name sounds like when it rolls off his tongue in ecstasy.

Seonghwa has it all memorized. He knows where Hongjoong’s dips and curves are. He knows how to navigate his body like a brush to its canvas. He knows what makes Hongjoong tic, what sends his head into the stars and stimulates the brightest colors. He has Hongjoong wrapped around him like the notes around his head.

Hongjoong’s fingers tangle in Seonghwa’s hair, gently urging him further down on his cock. Closing his eyes, Seonghwa welcomes him in, flattening his tongue against the underside of it.

As Hongjoong approaches his climax, Seonghwa’s mind travels to the cosmos.

_“A coral pink. The sky was so dark that day. I didn’t know it at the time, but I think that’s when I started to love you.”_

Seonghwa loves him.

In all his shades of pink, Seonghwa loves him.

And in all his vibrant, chaotic, brilliant hues, Hongjoong loves him back.

**Author's Note:**

> well... that was probably the sappiest thing i've written. sorry for just slapping some smut at the end but like... eh, that's me for ya
> 
> don't know how satisfied i am with it but i hope you enjoyed it at least somewhat! :D
> 
> come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/galaxysangs)!


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